


as though the pavements are painted silver

by whiskeyinthejar



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: M/M, Paris in 1949, why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 15:46:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1058610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whiskeyinthejar/pseuds/whiskeyinthejar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Louis, taking the book from his hands, answers after a pause. “Liars are the best lovers,” he says at last. “They tell you only what you want to hear.”</p><p>“It seems a strange sort of love, if there must be liars.” Harry says, “Is there no hope for romance?”</p><p>Translation into Russian available <a href="http://ficbook.net/readfic/1673507">here</a>.</p>
            </blockquote>





	as though the pavements are painted silver

**Author's Note:**

> Includes many references to Ancient Greeks and their Gods, for reasons that I can't explain or begin to understand.
> 
> For Jana, who has wanted a Paris AU for as long as I can remember. I hope it is up to your high expectations.
> 
> This would definitely not exist without the beautiful song [Parisienne Walkways](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AX8EPJFtRvs) by Gary Moore and Phil Lynott, which is worth listening to even if you don't read this.
> 
> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. All characters and events should be in no way associated with any person, and I do not profit from or intend to offend.
> 
> (I am actually quite stupid and accidentally deleted this about ten minutes after I posted it so here it is again please don't laugh).

_I remember Paris in '49._  
 _The Champs Elysee, Saint Michel,_  
 _and old Beaujolais wine._  
 _And I recall that you were mine_  
 _in those Parisienne days._

_Looking back at the photographs._  
 _Those summer days spent outside corner cafes._  
 _Oh, I could write you paragraphs,_  
 _about my old Parisienne days._

_______________________________________

 

The first time, he almost decides to stay with his books, shut the window to keep out the chilled night air. His feet are not under his control, though; but then again, it could be that he’s dragged against his (yielding) will.  
In the end, with his jacket tight around his shoulders, he decides that a break from the words of dead must be of some use, if only for the night.

Bright spots of light mark the walls and spread across the floor, softening the shined wood under his shoes. They claim a table, he and Zayn and Zayn’s newest paramour –slim with light hair curled in the fashion– and he plays the watchful guardian on the date. It could be much worse, he knows. There’s dark wine in large glasses and the food is good, but later tomorrow Zayn will call, eager for his opinion on his girl. Louis could say that her lightness contrasts with his darker skin like complementary colours, but that would be much the same for many a Parisian girl.

A swell of applause breaks through the audience, and even seeps through into their corner. Zayn pays it no attention, his eyes fixated upon her (Louis must learn her name, but he must also learn the thoughts of the great men of the past, and things as simple as names have a habit of slipping away from him).

At the front of the room is a small stage that Louis had passed over in his hasty first glance when it had been empty. Now, however, there are three figures upon it; one at the piano, another holds a guitar, and the last stands at the front, his hands held behind his back. It’s this last that holds Louis’s attention, the green of his blazer an affront to Louis’s eyes almost as much as his face.  
This man at the front, with untamed hair and wide eyes, gives life to every ink drawing of Aphrodite or Hera.

“Hello,” He says, his voice far lower than Louis’s own, and he speaks the word slower than the dawning sky, “I’d like to sing a few songs for you tonight, if you’d like?”

Perhaps he speaks slowly because this is not his native tongue. Of course, his accent is near infallible, but in the chinks a hint of England comes through.

There is no reply to his question, but Louis thinks that may have been done purposely. Slowly, he sips from his wine, and it is smooth on his tongue.

His first song is one Louis doesn’t know, with a strumming melody, so he allows the words to wash over him with their foreignism, and he makes note of every movement the singer makes.  
The wine is smooth on his tongue, and the voice is as smooth to his ears as the wine is in his mouth. More than Aphrodite, or Hera; perhaps he is Orpheus.

But then- Orpheus was but a man.

Louis’s whole body is out of his control, his hands now breaking free from their shackles to applaud, beating together in time with the rest of the room.  
In a corner of his mind, he takes a thought to wonder whether everyone is as struck as he is.  
He’ll never be able to laugh at Zayn again when he’s extolling the virtues of another lover, unless he can stand his uneasy conscience. (Louis thinks he’ll take the inner disquiet).

Up at the front, the man (or perhaps a boy, since his eyes match his jacket in hue, and he seems green in more ways than those) has his cheeks flushed rose pink, whether with exertion or abash Louis can’t tell.

If he could sing in such a way, Louis would not feel ashamed.

“Thank you, thank-” he says, holding up a hand, the palm facing Louis. The room falls silent save the clinks of cutlery on china and low murmurs of discussion.

This song, Louis does know. He can’t quite dredge up from memory where he’s heard it before, the soft music, but this time, it’s transformed.

_J'ai longtemps rêvé de vous parler chérie._

It’s a simple love song, and the same message can be heard everywhere these days. But here, with this voice and slow words it sounds real.

“With all your jealous body,” green eyes croons, and Louis is watching him from the outside. It’s impossible not to watch him; his body thrums with kept in energy humming on a low level, his gestures swooping and Louis is caught.  
He’s existed here for two years, living and breathing, but only now he understands the full meaning of why Paris is the alleged city of love.

The song tapers off whilst Louis stares, more transfixed now than he’s ever been, not by any page of type or the words of his professors.

Limbs too long for the material over them, the Orpheus imitator waits for the noise to end, the harsh patter of skin against skin. Some women at the side call out, their faces painted up beautifully, but they do not compare.

Features mellowed in the warm light from the side lamps, the man smiles, a slow tilting up of the lips that spreads all the way to his eyes. He looks a God, and yet impossibly more human than anyone Louis has ever seen.

“This’ll be the last, and then I’ll let you all leave.” He says, his words careful when they shouldn’t be.

It’s another song Louis doesn’t know, but he can assume that it will carry in the same vein as the one previous- the music is gentle, a caress.

 When it is over, Louis comes to the realisation that his eyes have not moved from the slender figure once. No doubt Zayn will hold this against him as extortion until they both are dust.

It ends quietly, one drawn out note bathing Louis with its richness, and then the stage empties before he can fully realise anything is happening.

Everything passes too quickly before him; Zayn and (he will learn her name, commit it to memory like he has with every moment of this evening so easily) his inamorata make their excuses, her pale skin smudged pink on her cheeks at Zayn’s smile.  
Louis’s known Zayn for years, but he looks so young.

The nighttime is black sky around them, velvet soft and cloudless. It’s a still summer night, but cool enough to raise bumps along his arms, and Louis’s best jacket is still too tight around the shoulders, limiting his movements. This is the price he pays for every allowing someone to help choose his clothes.

A whiff of perfume as he kisses her cheek, and then the door behind him is closed. Once he’s climbed the stairs to reach his own front door, it occurs to him that he never closed the window.

His apartment is frigid, his book still lying open where he left it before his unceremonious dragging out of his den. Louis attempts a valiant effort to finish the chapter –after all, he has lost time to make up for– but his eyes slide across each line without understanding a word that passes.

Across the room from him, his eyes catch on the heavy green silk of his curtains (a gift that his mother thought would be pertinent for a bare student apartment). It matches the dark _vert_ of Orpheus’s jacket, and the ring around his pupil that Louis only caught in a quick flash before their eyes broke contact.

It is a long time before sleep claims him, and yet it is no time at all.

* * *

The next time Louis sees him, it has been seven days. After the first time, Louis persuaded Zayn to go out the following night, but the singer was a woman with hair knotted back tightly behind her with a fondness for hymns, of all things. Louis supposes it is the Sabbath day, after all.

He thinks Zayn, with his dark eyes, suspects him to be here for a single reason. This must be divine intervention signalling him to leave the asylum of his apartment more often.

Of course, the inevitable discussion over Zayn’s romance arises half way through the evening.

“I think I have found her.” Zayn proclaims, the stem of the wine glass held loosely between his fingers. A bead of red wine travels down the clear glass and stains it.

“Found who?” Louis asks, since the wine makes him dull and slow. It is the fault of Dionysus and all his produce.

“My muse.” One of Zayn’s hands traces over the grain of the wood, fingers mapping each ridge.

One of the troubles with having an artist for a friend is his constant searching for his muse. A sunset is a sunset, whether you are in love or out.

Louis clears his throat quietly, but Zayn will not let the conversation end so swiftly.

“And you still laugh at me,” the room is warm, and sounds spills across the air, mumbles of conversations. “It’s unhealthy to hide from love, you know.”

“I don’t _hide_ from love.” Louis retorts, finishing the last of his wine. Either side of him, the panelled walls seem to slide in and out of focus, which should be alarming in many ways but is in none.

“Then you are simply avoiding it.”

“And you always told me it is impossible to hide from. I thought I might be struck down as if by lightning.”

“I believe,” Zayn replies, placing his glass back on the table with a steady hand (much steadier than Louis’s own), “You are beyond even my own help.”

“I have broken you.”

Zayn laughs, tilting back his head, and makes to depart. No doubt he has a half finished portrait of his great love to complete, and this will be the one that fully displays romance or whatever virtue he strives to represent.

“The singer from last night,” Louis asks, stopping one of the waiting boys and gesturing to the stage. It is a wasted gesture, since the boy is facing the other way with his back to that side of the room. “Does he sing every week?”

“Every week on a Saturday,” Is the reply, so Louis nods and presses a small tip into the boy’s hand. He can afford such luxuries, since his life is hardly one of opulence.

At the exit, he rejoins Zayn, who begins to expound on the splendour of the starlit night. Granted, it’s specks of light are beautiful against the black, but Louis has seen things much more so.

* * *

His books keep him rapt until the Saturday arrives with sticky heat, most likely too hot for his finest jacket, but Louis can permit himself some vanity; if he keeps his hair neat, and his jackets fitted, it is no more so than any other man.

Tonight, he is alone, because Louis is sure that Zayn already is suspicious. It is his natural state, after all. Besides, he should be spending the evening somewhere away from Louis’s dusty mind and talk of books. (It might have been good for him, though, to allow Louis to educate him).

As he is alone, Louis arrives later, and by the time he is sat down, the same three men from this time last week are standing on the stage. The jacket is of a different shade; today, it is sapphire blue, the edges as sharp as the stone.

His beauty far exceeds that of Orpheus. He must be Apollo.

“Hello,” the man says, the same as the first but sounding different. It could be that tonight, there is no wine in Louis’s hand, since he has decided to stay in sobriety. “I’ll be singing for you tonight.”

There are more words, introducing the men by their instruments, but Louis has such problems with remembering names. They are not French, he knows, and he wonders what they are doing in Paris. What is anyone ever doing in Paris, though? He is here to study, and finds himself staring at beautiful singer.

Again, he knows only one of the songs. It is one by Edith Piaf, a name even Louis knows, in all his hiding and existing inside his small apartment.

_Le ciel est bleu, la mer est verte._

The words tell of his love for a boy who believes in neither God nor Devil, and it turns out her lost love left for war. Many left for war; it is not unusual.

The following songs, Louis does not recognise, though his fingers tap along with the tune and he never takes his eyes off of the stage for fear he might lose sight of him completely.

Once, the green eyes meet his, for all of four seconds, and Louis would believe his heart to have stopped, but he knows that is not true. Still, the world recedes around him, the paint on the walls fading and the noise dimming until there is nothing but the resplendence before him.

In due course, the eyes pass on, as Louis knew they would, and time begins to pass again.

(He recalls reading somewhere that time passes more slowly in a dream than it does in life, and those few heartbeats must surely have been dreamt, for they took an age to pass when they should have ended hours ago).

Louis pities the others in this room, who do not see the man before them for all he is. They have been denied the facile pleasure of looking at something impossible in it’s beauty.

When the set is over, Louis comes to the realisation that he has not ordered any food, which could account for his sudden hunger. He’s deliberating the different advantages between eating here and returning to eat at his apartment when the chair next to him is pulled back, the noise of the chair legs scraping across the floor pulling him out of his reverie.

“Do you mind if I sit here? Everywhere else is taken.” Louis’s eyes are taking an age to travel from the table to the figure, but he recognises the voice and the few words he has heard it speak.

“My pleasure,” He replies, indicating the chair, which is promptly filled with a lean torso and lengthy limbs. Up close, the blazer is even more offensive in colour compared to the neutrality of Louis’s own brown one. Perhaps this exemplifies their differences.

“Sorry to invade on you like this.” Louis is told. He should form a reply along the lines of _it is no problem,_ but he is finding it hard to think at all, let alone on propriety.

“You’re a good singer.” Louis says, which means nothing, but it draws out a smile, which means everything. One of the waiting boys arrives to ask them what it is they will have, and he is the invasion into this corner.

“If I have to make you suffer my company, I should know something about you.”

Louis does not know how to respond. He is Harpocrates.

The silence is deafening, so Louis breaks it with what little means he has at his disposal.

“I’m not that interesting, so there is not much to tell.”

“How can you be sure it won’t interest me?” Is the prompt reply. Louis can dispute no further without seeming petulant, so he tells what little he can.

“What do you want to know, then?”

They fall into a routine; he will be asked a question, and Louis will answer it without any pause to ask a question of his own.  
Slowly, he tells his story, in bare sentences; his name, Louis; his profession, student; his interests –this gives him pause for thought, for what indeed _are_ his interests?–, books, and music, which sounds grandiose beyond belief but such is his curse. Other, mundane questions- what colour is best, where did you grow up, more that he cannot remember for fear of forgetting something more salient (such as the artificial light glinting off brunette hair, the slanted lines of a jacket and the contrast the splash of colour makes against creamy skin).

When their dinners are handed to them, there is a slim enough break for interviewer to become interviewee.

“What about you? You know my whole life and I don’t know your name.”

“That is hardly your entire life.” Is the rejoinder, but it is quickly smoothed over by more words. “My name is Harry.”

Harry. Ha(r)-ry. Male first name. Old German origin. Medieval English form of Henry. The meaning, in Old German, is home ruler.

“That’s only half your name.” Louis points out, his voice suitably softened by inebriation.

“Harry Styles, then,” is the laughing reply.

Styles. Sti-uls. Of Angelo Saxon origin- it has two potential sources. The first is derived from the Olde English pre-7th Century "stigol" a steep ascent, and from "stigan", to climb. The second, from the Olde English "stigel", a stile. Topographical surnames such as this were some of the earliest seen.

“I’m glad to meet you, Harry Styles,” Louis says, and for once he means every word.

He learns that Harry has moved to Paris from England with two friends.

“What was so wrong with England that you left?” Louis asks, even though he would surely leave the confines of England for France.

“It isn’t Paris.” Harry replies, which is not a reply at all.

Harry Styles, who left his own country for the city of love.

“Have you been here long?” He asks in lieu of pressing the issue. Inside, it’s too warm, his shirt and blazer trapping his body.

Louis. Meaning ‘renowned warrior’.

“Two years, now. I think the accent has caught me at last.”

“Not all the time.” Louis smiles without thinking, allowing it to leach into his eyes.

Other things he learns; Harry has dreams of singing for the rest of his life (which Louis would allow him); he comes from a sleepy village; Paris can overwhelm with it’s majesty; the last, which he is not told, is that Harry is not a God, but he can neither be man.

Louis shall think of him as Ganymede.

After the dinner is over, Louis had expected for this to be the end, but Harry follows him to the door with a slow smile. Here, the light is brighter, and so are Harry’s eyes.

“May I have the honour of walking you home?” Harry’s grin is vivid, and Louis is blinded.

“If you only want a short walk.” Louis says, but Harry follows him regardless.

Harry’s walking pace is slower than Louis is used to; it must be a defining trait, to move so slowly. The time passes quickly in disparity, Harry’s low voice describing each star and the patterns they draw in the sky.

They are the same stars as every night. They are so much different.

“Does the sky look different in England?” Louis asks. Harry has stopped on the path, staring up at the atramentous sky. If he had eidetic memory, Louis would always have this memory, crisp and fresh, but as he doesn’t- he drinks his fill; the curve of Harry’s neck, the lines of his jaw, the soft paleness of his skin emphasized by the night.

“The sky looks different every night.”

“I don’t understand you at all.”

Harry turns his head from the moonlight, and his lips are already tilted up as he catches Louis’s gaze. “I wouldn’t want you to.”

The doorway of Louis’s building, with it’s smooth white walls, has never been more unwelcome, or seemed so cold against the warmth of the summer.

“I hope you don’t own this whole place.” Harry says, his clever mouth that can learn the words of a song but stumbles over conversation.

“Far from it.” Louis’s mouth is dry, and each movement of Harry’s hands is fluid.

There is a macrocosm above their heads, and around their bodies, and under their feet, and none of that matters save for now. Streetlamps burn against the stygian backdrop, and Harry has him crowded against the door. The street is empty, and Louis’s eyes are closed, his mouth pressed against Harry’s.

He can taste wine, on his own tongue and on Harry’s.

The door opens easily under a fumbling grasp; Harry’s fingers are long, dwarfing Louis’s and tangling in his hair.

Louis discovers the way the Harry’s hair looks against the white cotton of a pillow, and how his eyes seem ablaze when Louis presses kisses along his jawline.

There are books on the bed where Louis had left them earlier, and then Harry is on the bed. Then the books are on the floor, because they are rendered trivial.

This first time is not slow; they are both drunk on fine wine, and Harry looks beautifully obscene this way. Louis moves over him with sinuous ease, and Harry’s legs curl around him sinfully.

Louis loses himself in humanity. He loses himself in Harry. It is possible that he is not human at all.  
Meaning: renowned warrior. His triumph is this.

“May I stay the night?” Harry says, his voice a hoarse song.

“It would only be proper. After walking me home.” Louis replies, before following the urge to meet Harry’s lips.

If this is what it means to love, then perhaps Louis had been denying himself.

* * *

It is morning, the soft smudges of dawn colour lighting the inside of the room. Louis’s books are haphazard on the floor, one or two lying open where they fell.

That is extraneous, because Harry is also lying where he fell, stretched out over the sheets.

In the supple light of morning, Louis can see the Paris skyline beyond his window, and closer than that, he can feel the warmth of Harry’s body next to his.  
The river Seine ebbs and flows in the distance. Louis’s heartbeat is isochronal, in tempo with the river as it barrels its way towards the sea.

One side of his bed is bordered by a wall. His other exit is barred by Harry. This, he tells himself, is his reason for staying there when he should arise.

The books stay where they are until later in the morning.

“Didn’t mean to ruin your things.” Harry says, holding the one of books in his fingers lightly. It’s as if he’s afraid to touch it for fear of it crumbling in his hands.

“A bent page or two doesn’t matter.” Small lines appear between Harry’s brows, and Louis is certain that he is dissatisfied with that answer. “I’m telling the truth, you know.”

“As if I would think you’re lying.”

Harry does not seem to ever stop smiling. The corners of his mouth are perpetually tilted toward the sun.

Louis, taking the book from his hands, answers after a pause. “Liars are the best lovers,” he says at last. “They tell you only what you want to hear.”

“It seems a strange sort of love, if there must be liars.” Harry says, “Is there no hope for romance?”

“I didn’t think you would be a romantic.”

“This is the city of love. It’s difficult to be otherwise.” Is the reply. Even now, on a subject as solemn as this one, his lips are quirked.

Around them, the world is rebuilding, and Louis is building himself up too. Even the skyline had been broken, the world burning in flashes. The proverbial Paris had not held the beauty then that it does now.

“Perhaps love is simply lust, transformed.”

“Perhaps it is that you’ve never loved before.” Harry says, his words held like an oblation. Even clothed, he is salacious; his shirt is rumpled from its hours on the hard floorboards of Louis’s bedroom, and his hair is wild.

Louis should reply here. That is how he works; when there is nothing left to say, continue to elucidate. His mind runs quickly. There is no reply he can make.

“I won’t leave.” Harry says. It is unpremeditated. The ring around Harry’s pupils is sharp in clarity.

It is a thoughtless promise, from the heat of the moment.

There is half a second passed before Louis nods.

* * *

Studies fall away as Louis falls; he could almost believe himself perched upon the very steps of Olympus. A man, in love, on the doorstep of the gods.

“Do you have no luxuries at all?” Harry asks one day (it may be the day after or perhaps it is a month).

“Of course I do.” Louis replies, crossing the room. The night is dark, and it is darker still with the thick curtains closed. Each edge of Harry’s body blurs into the night.

“I don’t see them.”

Harry is teaching him English, little by little. Louis knew some, before, but now he is relearning, and it is always better to learn from a native.

Still, he prefers to speak French, if only because of how the language sounds in Harry’s voice. It is melodic, and he is beautiful.

“You should look closer,” Louis says, crossing the room.

They talk no further.

* * *

It is one month before Harry is introduced to Zayn; it should have been earlier, but Louis is selfish and keeps a firm grip on the things he loves, even if he does not know he loves them.

“I know you,” Zayn says, once the requisite introductions are over and done. “Where do I know you from?”

Harry seems to own an entire wardrobe in a spectrum of colours. Today’s jacket is grey, and tightly fitting.

“I sing here on Saturdays?” Harry offers, and the recognition sharpens in Zayn’s eyes.

“Louis couldn’t take his eyes off you, the first time we came.”

Even though the revelation is directed at Louis, Harry is the one who flushes, a swipe of colour on his cheeks before he grins. Zayn has brought his own date, and it is the same girl. Perhaps this is his muse, after all.

Their dinner is quiet, occasional remarks on the world or on Paris. Zayn is spellbound, anyway; every move from her, and he shifts too.

If Louis is equally as intoxicated, he does not know it.

Part way through the night, they are joined by the two musicians that play with Harry. As soon as they approach, it becomes evident that one, at least, is of Irish upbringing. His accent is lilting on words where Louis is unaccustomed to it, but it is a welcome change.

They are introduced. Louis makes a note in his mind to commit these to memory.  
Liam, the brunette, and Niall, the blonde.

They all drink, the wine flowing. Outside, the sky darkens, and inside, the lights burn brightly. At some point, Louis relaxed, and he laughs freely in a way that must be as beneficial to his health as the wine is not.

“How did three Englishmen find themselves here, anyway?” Zayn asks, tilting his glass towards the three in question. “Wait- two. Two Englishmen and one Irish.”

Louis’s own glass is empty.

“You’re supposed to travel, in your life. It’s one of those. You know, those things you have to do.” Liam –he knows it is Liam since the hair is russet– does not seem to know what he is saying. This is fine. They will likely have forgotten this in the morning.

“I’ve never moved from France.” Louis’s glass seems far too empty, but the bottle is empty too.

“Then I’ll show you England, one day.” Harry vows. Harry makes many promises. That means he is either trustworthy, or hopeful.

“I have all I need here.” Quips Louis- it is only half jest. There is no reason for him to stray from Paris. “Unless you will make sure Zayn stays here. I could agree to a break from him.”

The expected outrage from the man in question masks any further talk of leaving. Louis is confident that the subject is not fully closed; Harry’s eyes flick to him often. He feels that they are almost alone, amongst their friends.

They are the first to leave, since Louis has a class the following morning and a tired student learns nothing. It is possible he shall suffer weariness regardless. Harry mumbles an excuse that Louis barely hears, under the pumping of his own blood. He thinks it is something to do with wanting to write to his sister.

With the night closing in on them, Louis discovers Harry to be even more drunk than he; in the shadow of tall buildings, Harry leans against him, his arms searching, heavy and warm.

“Louis, Louis,” Harry says once they are in the sanctuary of Louis’s apartment. Inebriation makes Harry unwieldy, pushing them into walls and doors before Louis has fully turned the handle. His kisses are open mouthed, and wet on Louis’s skin and lips.

“Is there something particular about my name tonight?” Louis asks. The handle will not turn, and then it does, spilling them into the room without ceremony.

“I like to say your name.” Harry retorts, but the words slur. “And you are very. Very beautiful.”

“Am I?” Louis has supposed he is fair. He does not repulse, but he is not a God, like this man. A walking conundrum.

“Of course you are. And you are witty, and charming. And your intelligence puts me to shame.” Harry’s extolling of his various virtues makes him out to be someone he is not. There is none of that in him. He is no more than any man (he is no less, either, but that is inconsequential).

“You must have me mistaken. You’re looking for perfection.” Louis replies. His words are still clarion, and the room is dark. They are half waltzing to the bed, their legs entangling on the way and nearly tripping them.

“I’m not looking. I’ve found it.” Says Harry, whose voice is comparatively smeared. “You don’t believe. I know you would not. Your modesty is boundless.”

(“It is far from it,” Louis murmurs, but Harry is swept up in his own monologue and doesn’t hear).

“And you lie here, and you think this is a drunk man’s ramblings. Well, it is the ramblings of a drunk man, but I wrote it with a sober mind. You are much more than you think you are, if you understand. I don’t think I understand myself, but your mind is much sharper than my own, especially now.” Harry’s arms tighten around his torso, perhaps unconsciously, perhaps not. “You will do so much,” continues Harry, “You will change the world.”

“I doubt I could try.” Louis says guardedly, as Harry is making no sense. His mind is travelling faster than Louis can keep up, burdened down as he is with rich wine and want.

“There you go. You tell yourself you cannot, so you never do.”

“That sounds very inspiring. I will see it written down in days to come.” He is mocking. Their conversation is in snatches, pauses for breath between kisses that leave him needing more.

“If I hadn’t said I could survive here,” Harry battles on, regardless of Louis’s own innate doubts, “I wouldn’t have come. And then I wouldn’t know you.”

Louis had known Harry was a romantic. He hadn’t known just how ingrained it was into him; it shows through yet more clearly as the night progresses, and his speech becomes more and more muddled.

“And would you be missing out, if you did not know me?”

“That,” Harry says, drawing out the single syllable so the word seems endless, “Is a question to which you already know the answer.”

“How impertinent of me.”

In the ebony of the room, Louis can hardly make out most of Harry’s features, so he maps them with his fingers. He traces the slope of his nose. His mouth draws a line down Harry’s collarbones.

They have the night to themselves. Louis allows himself to move slowly, as glacial as Harry’s voice, until both their voices are splintered and their bodies are sweat soaked.

Harry tells him he meant every word he said. In a few heartbeats, Louis reviews his entire life, and proclaims this to be one of the finest days.

* * *

“What are the chances,” Louis says, stilling his walk by the corner cafe table. It is nearly time for lunch, and a clement summer day. Even the sky is cloudless. “Of seeing you here?”

“You’re not the only one who lives in Paris, you know.” Replies Harry, lowering his book and sliding a marker between the pages.

“Is that one of mine?” He makes the sentence into a question, even though he knows the answer. He’s been missing the book for days, and here it is, clasped in Harry’s hands.

“I’m slowly educating myself for you. We will discuss the Gods and buy wine too expensive for your funds.”

It is horrendously rude to sit oneself down uninvited to lunch. Louis does it anyway.

“You don’t have to change yourself for me.” He says. The sun glows from behind Harry’s body, the light an assault on Louis’s eyes; it is only half as bright as Harry’s smile.

“I wouldn’t dream of it. This is all for furthering my own intellect.”

Harry orders him a coffee, strong and hot. He tastes it on Harry later, still on his tongue when he kisses Harry’s skin. Day by day, he seems more golden, kissed so by the sunlight.

In the evening, he makes the same, dark liquid that burns down his throat.

“I think you should know that I love you.” Harry says abruptly, his feet resting on Louis’s lap.

“And I, you,” Louis mouth makes the movements without his realising. He finds that he does not care at all.

* * *

Their bliss period lasts them well. It is three months before they implode, which is surprising for two people such as them.

It is a Saturday, which Louis will remember purely for it’s being the day that he first saw him, and also the day they met. Everything must always come in threes.

Harry is sullen, and has been since the morning. For his own part, Louis is volatile, but then again, when is he not? The difference today is that Harry is not there as a balm. He is only now realising how he has come to rely on someone who stays throughout his most incendiary moments.

Besides that all, they both are drunk, vestiges of brandy hiding on their breath.

“The world doesn’t want change,” Louis says of the newspaper. It’s open on his lap, pages spread out over his legs. The article in question refers to some young idealist ready to fight for the freedom of the world, and Louis is unbearably tired.

“That’s not true.” Disputes Harry. The skies have opened above them, painting over azure with thick grey cloud. Small drops of rainwater tap incessantly against the windowpane, a constant cadence on the glass.

Louis’s eyes focus on the medium glass in Harry’s hand. It is half full with liquid, whereas Louis’s is empty. The room is empty too, save for them. Usually, they alone are enough.

Beige walls and stiff curtains. Louis trains his eyes on that as he speaks. “If the world wanted to be changed, it would’ve happened. There have been men who wanted to destroy it, maybe, but people who really want to change it are much rarer.”

In his dissent with the pledges the boy in the newspaper makes, Louis had forgotten Harry’s inherent optimism. If he is not careful, Louis shall break him with his realistic words.

“The world _is_ changing, Louis,” Harry says. His eyes are large as moons in this evening, and his voice is smoothed down with alcohol. “Every day.”

This conversation has been had inside Louis’s mind a thousand times. Recounting it with Harry will get him no further to ending it. He moves to turn the page as an indicator that the topic is closed off, but Harry interrupts.

“You still think I’m wrong.”

“I didn’t say you were wrong. It’s a matter of belief, simple as religion.” Louis says, his voice sharp and decisive. It cuts over Harry’s for it was made to be heard, and now more than ever, he is glad it was.

Since the subject has arisen, Harry has been stepping closer to the precipice. Now, Louis realises just how close he is to falling. But he opened this conversation with his unwise words, so he will carry it on if needs be; it is of no matter if Harry is willing to listen. He shall be able to say that he tried. “You want to believe the worst of the world.” Harry says, leaning back on the sofa and gesturing to Louis with the glass in his hand. “Everything is always so black and white. Does there need to be a glorious revolution for there to be change?”

“You’re putting words into my mouth.” The sentence itself is mild, but Louis delivers it like the lash of a whip, and Harry recoils as though the blow had really struck him.

“I do no such thing. What would it take, Louis, for you to admit that there is change?”

Louis has never pondered over the subject at length. On some level, he assumed that he would know, if the time came. Not the _glorious revolution_ that Harry so sneers at; one of those is unlikely to occur, these days, and if it did, it would be stamped out before the flames could catch.

“Some sign from those in charge. We have such binding laws, and traditions. Even our social customs. This planet moves too slowly, don’t you think?”

“I think that you are waiting for everyone else to do the work. You could incite change, if you wanted. Yet you stay here with the words of dead men as though that will help you.”

Louis is stung into stinging reply. “At least, if I know of the past, I won’t make their mistakes. How do you think we fell into war? The same actions repeating. We are a cyclical chain of mistakes; even with my dead men, I am better off here than struggling through the future unarmed.”

“Wouldn’t it be all the better, then, for you to move others? You say that you’re almost a fortune teller, but you won’t share this fantastical knowledge with the rest of us. Instead, you sit and criticize the world for it’s aberrations. A world will only change as long as you want it, Louis.”

Every time he speaks, it seems Harry will say his name. If it weren’t for his eager youth, Louis would suspect Harry of purposely attempting to throw him off track.  
Those tactics are often reserved for him alone.

Briefly, he considers soliciting to change subjects. It is far too likely that it is past the hour for that, and Harry will accuse him of avoidance. “That is the problem, isn’t it? Nobody wants to change it at heart. They are satisfied with their small lives and hope someone bigger shall come along and take the matter out of their unresisting hands.”

Frowning, Harry finishes his drink and catches Louis’s eye. It is a mistake, allowing himself to look anywhere around the region of Harry’s eyes, or he will be ensnared, which is no way to carry on a debate. “Is there nobody in the world that you approve of, then?”

“I have not met the entirety of the world. Once I have, I shall return with an answer and approximate figures.”

It is one of the longest times that Louis has seen Harry, and for him not to be smiling. It is odd, on his face, to see a straight mouth with no curvature, or without the appearance of the indents in his cheeks.

“Yet again, you strike me down.” Harry says. Under other circumstances, the word might have been accompanied with laughter, or at the least a soft kiss.

“I don’t wish to do so. You wanted my opinion, and that was it.”

It would be easier to hate him, Louis knows, if Harry were as cold as Louis himself, or as bitter. “I thought I might be able to turn your heart with some optimism.”

“You say that as though I am a pessimist.”

Harry’s brows furrow. “Is that not what you are?”

Perhaps this is the proverbial last moment before the storm breaks around them. He should endeavour to redeem himself, to this boy who believes him as great as Pallas Athena; Louis is long past that final threshold.

He has never felt less of a renowned warrior.

“Of course not,” he says softly, breaking the eye contact to track the erratic movements of the beads of water. “I am a mere realist.”

* * *

Minutes after Louis brought the discussion to a brusque end, Harry excused himself and left his company. Who could blame him? After all, he is not riveting company, and even those who claim to love him cannot stay.

The darkness is pressing, that night. It is not the first he has spent without Harry’s company; he has spent much of his life without him. There is something venal in the stale air that is nothing and everything to do with him.

Louis knows he cannot blame himself. But that night, with the sheets sticking to his body, it is desperately hard not to. A small slit of light filters through between his curtains, though he could’ve sworn he had closed them firmly. His mind is tearing new holes, and everything is pouring through in trickles.

Perhaps implode is too strong a word. Instead, they burn out; a worn, blackened candle wick reaching the end of the tether.  
The dying remnants of a firework on the fourteenth of July, it’s colours dimming into puffs of smoke. One of the few canvases that Zayn had allowed him keep was one of such a night- in the forefront are silhouettes and behind them, swirls of colour set fire to the river water.

Harry returns after a full day of Louis’s waiting. Louis is reminded of Alexander returning to Hephaestion, but arriving too late. It is a curious idea, since Louis is still breathing.

“I’ve missed you,” Harry says firstly, his eyes wandering across from brick to brick. Actually, those eyes travel everywhere save for Louis, which is exactly the way it should not be. Even as early as it is (and it is, the sky is still saturated with pinks and oranges), it is sweltering. The heat hasn’t been so stifling in years, but Louis breathes better here. Perhaps it is because it is outside. Perhaps it is because he has finally caught Harry’s eye.

Louis should make a reply. That is his place. His mouth opens slightly, but only to wet his lips.

“We can’t stand here forever, Louis.” Harry is half joking. Half smiling.

This is the bargain he is offered; they will make believe. “When will we talk this through?” Louis does not take the extended olive branch. There are too many possibilities where it will only corrupt.

“What will we talk about?” Any residue of a smile has washed away. Louis is Midas; his very touch deracinates. “There is nothing to say. No one is without their arguments.”

It is a valid point, and yet, such a naive one. Louis wonders whether to call him out on his youth.

“Do you ever wonder,” he says slowly. He says it slowly, he thinks, in case he changes his mind on the words he is about to speak. “if we are incompatible?”

“No.” Harry replies. Once, Harry shakes his head resolutely, and the sunlight catches on his hair as though it is a halo. It has been so long, and yet no time at all, and he is still wondrously beautiful. If Asclepius were to cure, surely this would be the salve.

“I wonder about it,” Louis tells him thoughtfully. In his haste to reach the doorway, he has forgotten to button his shirt up fully. Unless he is careful, he shall be charged with public indecency, and this conversation shall continue on through bars. “And sometimes, I laugh at how ridiculous I am.”

The pause that follows could be for breath, or to admire the fleeting smile on Harry’s lips. Of course, it may always be both.

“Other times, when I am alone, I am sure that I am right. The sun is no lover of the moon, after all.”

Was that wine he was drinking earlier? It may have been absinthe. When the hours are early (or late, since his hours of sleep were few), it is simple to forget. There is liquid courage pumping in his veins, and he almost wishes it would stop his heart if it cannot still his mouth.

“Apollo’s twin sister was Artemis.” He is reminded, softly. Harry’s voice is like the rich honey he finds sometimes at the market, that is too expensive for his meagre savings and he allows himself the purchase nonetheless.

“We are not Gods.” Louis is cutting, and he as bitter as the alcohol. There is no point to this discussion; he shall castigate Harry until they are separate once more.

For his part, Harry seems to be mulling this point over in his mind. Louis is sure that there will be yet another plea as to why he should not take this step.

Dawn has broken, and the sky has nearly returned to its usual pallor.

“If this is you telling- well. If you regret it, then I’ll leave.” This, Louis should have foreseen. As if he regrets; who will begrudge him his greatest hours?

Still, it is a way out. A bargain that Harry did not know he had proposed. “Wouldn’t it be better for the both of us?”

There is a moment, just as the last of the colours bleeds away, where he is sure that Harry will reply. The mouth opens ever so slightly. The jaw works.

Sharply, Harry nods, and turns back on his heel. Orange daylight blinds him without Harry’s body to screen him, and when he has collected himself enough to shield his eyes, he is lonely.

* * *

It is on the third day that he takes the walk to Zayn’s apartment; the building is shabby, and the rooms are small, but everything feels as though it has a place. For the whiles that he spends there, even Louis has a sense of belonging.

“Sorry, I only allow in people who don’t forget me to spend all their time with singers.” Zayn says, standing across the doorway. After a moment of careful study of Louis’s face, he steps back silently and allows him entry.

It is a lonely blessing that at least they are alone. This is hardly the mood for making excuses in.

“It must be dire, if you took the long walk all the way here,” Zayn is half joking and half not; his black cotton shirt is paint stained and everything smells vaguely of absinthe, and underneath that, cheap wine.

“As an artist, you claim to know love.” This is the preliminary statement- Zayn nods regardless. “And you told me that love is not only good, but necessary for my eternal soul.”

Opening his mouth, Zayn makes to interrupt, so Louis points his finger in a terrible imitation of his professor. “Let me speak.”

“So you tell me all this, and I believe you. Sometimes –not often, of course, but sometimes– I am a fool. Forgive me,” He continues, index finger drumming out a rhythmless coronach on to his thigh. “You did not tell me everything.”

It is a monument to their friendship that Louis can see under the blank facade. In fact, it is probable that Zayn simply keeps it up permanently without realising he is even doing it.  
Still, he notices the confusion, and the flicker of worry. All is not lost for him, then. He can count his friends on one finger, but that is inconsequential, for at least he has him.

“What didn’t I say?”

Marking the fabric of Zayn’s shirt are two long swipes of oil paint. One is electric blue, and the other dark green. “That everything would hurt so badly.”

He is falsely calm. The eye of the storm. Everything around him has fallen into ruin, and it is for no reason. This is the future he sees before him, laid out like golden stones. There is nothing but dust.

“You learn to ignore the pain.” Zayn tells him, surprisingly quickly for one recovering from such an unanticipated disclosure.

“Would you tell a wounded man to ignore his pain?” He must mind his tongue, or he shall fall into another oration. “If I was shot, would you tell me the same?”

“I would tell you to cope with it, and then I would carry your blood-soaked body to the hospital.” Replies Zayn serenely. One of his thumbs wipes over the green paint. It flakes under his touch.

“Why do we love at all, if it’s end purpose is to destroy?” None of this is Zayn’s fault. But Louis must find someone to answer his questions, allow him to stare into their soul and find a reason.

“For the brief moments where it is worth loving.”

When Louis’s head has been turned by summertime, Zayn has grown wise. He is as undeserving of him as he was of Harry; and still, he is narcissistic enough to want to claim both for his own.

* * *

At first, it is anger that keeps Louis away. It simmers gently under the surface of his skin, occasionally heating so that it brews over his edges and then he will feel an urge to expel all air from his bedevilled lungs through a scream.  
He doesn’t do any such thing, of course. It is highly incongruous, and he is French.

After the anger comes harsh remorse, more so than Sirop de Picon or any words he has said. In fact, it is so sour that is stays his feet when they would much rather take the walk past the river. To take the taste away, he submerges himself in all types of drinks, but it underlies them all and it is still there in dawn. It is as though there is a hole in himself, and to cure it he will drink himself into a stupor.  
It does not work.

In the dust of remorse comes pride, and pride is a fool’s weakness. Yet if he is a fool, at least he is an honest one (and liars, of course, are much better lovers). Pride keeps him company for the weeks that pass, watching the skies turn ashen and drab with the imminent winter. Around him, each tree and shrub calls an end, and their remains clutter the ground in burnt hues.

It is as if the world has been wholly changed. Unless it is him who is changed; a different shade of blue in his iris. There is a too large blazer in one of his cupboards that he sometimes thinks about getting out.

Whenever he must walk, he walks to the right instead of the left. The left path is untouched by his shoes, even if the same cannot be said for his eyes. Taking the other route is a poor way of pretending that he is well. On the other hand, they are all set to die, so whether he is well, really, is inconsequential.  
He tells himself that often: before he rises, and before he falls into slumber. Louis is not sure whether it is working yet, or not. Regardless, it does not hide the fact that he is cracked in places and crippled in others.

 * * *

Pride must come before a fall. That is a saying, is it not?

Louis is sure that pride is the only thing keeping him up. If he must have a curse, at least it is one that spoils him slowly. It is his other vices that will destroy him, he believes.  
He is sure that there is no God above. A Hell below, he is less confident of. He is unchained, and free to make his own way.

Each day passes in leaps and bounds. Sometimes, he is sure it has been hours, and when he glances at the clock it will be midnight. It is never midnight.

His epiphany does not break the mould. It is a Saturday, which he despises simply for the reason that it is Saturday.  
For once, he is near sober, which is more to do with his lack of drink than his exiting the dark. On his mantelpiece (for the fire he does not light, even in winter) is a small envelope. It is not surprising that he has not noticed it. Many would be surprised how hard it is to concentrate when the world around you shimmers and tilts on it’s axis.

The paper is not his; it is thick, and cream. His fingers shake, because he is tired and because he needs a drink. As he opens the letter, his foot reaches the edge of the sofa before he expects, spilling him onto it’s cushions without alarm. None of the bottles there spill, because they are dry and empty.

How Harry had left this here, he does not know. It could not have been before, unless it was. Louis does not claim to know all of Harry, and not even half; there may be a hidden skill for picking locks that he has never before discovered.

The letter is short- it is barely a note, Louis thinks. Each letter flows into the next with black ink, and Louis presses his fingertip to the first, just in case this is imagination. It is not. Sober men do not dream.

_You won’t find this until I’ve left. I can’t sleep, but you are sleeping. How gorgeous you look. I feel like I am home._

It is signed in Harry’s name. This sheet must have been gathering dust for weeks, and now it chooses to force him into action; but it stirs him, tearing from the room without either hat or jacket.

Damp autumn leaves stick to the undersides of his shoes as he runs. Some of them flutter off behind him, and he is knocking so many out of his way that he finds himself forgetting to apologize.  
As far as Louis can remember, this walk was a short one. It feels eternal.

Without his realising, it began to rain; soft drizzles more suited to England than here. Each paving stone under his feet glistens with the water, and they are slick under Louis’s feet. Soft yellow light pours from the restaurant windows onto the pavements, and in the rain, the ground seems to shine.

He is late. Of course he is late. (Did he not think once of Alexander and Hephaestion?).

Harry is halfway through a song when Louis arrives through the door like a hurricane, blown in by wind and water. He is the elements, and Harry is fire.

The noise he makes draws all eyes to him, but his gaze does not falter. Neither does Harry’s, and Louis does not know whether to be relieved or not.

For one of the few times in his life, he is glad of his scanty knowledge of the English language.

“If I say I love you,” here is a song Louis does not know. Each word praises Harry’s voice like he was made to sing it, and Louis is drunk again. “I want you to know, it’s not just because there’s moonlight.”

Louis begins to think of a half letter that read _you are sleeping,_ but his thoughts are sluggish. “Though moonlight becomes you so.”

Those hours of sobriety seem fitting, now, since he is a drunkard for Harry.

He waits for Harry to reappear at his side, as he was sure he would. It would be as though he had stepped down from Olympus, and Louis would be penitent. The pride has tumbled down into pieces.

The first few minutes pass in heartbeats and gentle shivers. Steadily, the room forgets him, and leaves him to his cold; each murmur of bout of laughter seems a lullaby.  
Then; he realises that he is still solitary.

At last, he is defeated. Turning, he makes the walk out of the door, and into a warm (and equally as damp) body.

“Imagine seeing you here,” Harry says into his ear, and Louis recalls himself saying something similar. _What are the chances of seeing you here?_

“Can you forgive me?” There is no time to spare. He is impatient; he is Patroclus, tearing down the Trojans with his sword. In the lamplit dark, Harry’s face is pale as the moon.

Harry does not choose to reply until he has pulled him from the doorway, and further into Paris. With each road they walk, the spray of water soaks them, and Harry’s fingers are still curled loosely around Louis’s wrist.

They come to a stop on a stone bridge, and Harry walks half way across it before his feet fully stop. From here, Louis can see the Tower, and each light that burns in the buildings around them glows.

Below his feet, the paving stones seem to be dotted with starlight. (He knows it is raindrops).

“Are we here for a reason?” Louis asks, even though it is not his turn to speak. That is of no matter, since he glimpses a tilt of lips before it is smothered.

“Doesn’t it look beautiful here?” Harry says. Louis supposes, yes, it does. The Seine reflects the light from the buildings, and the water is no longer grey. It is silver, and each droplet ripples in the river. “What changed your mind?”

Louis’s hands are cut loose. He places them on the cold stone of the barrier, for there is too much space around him and it is choking. “I found your note.” It is an attempt at humour, and it is valiant.

Neither of them speak. “I thought it was best. For you.” Louis says, and he is numb with cold.

“I think you were wrong.” Harry is quiet so that Louis can barely hear him under the rush of the river. He is breathing in rainwater. His shirt is plastered to his body.  
Even with the light cast from the lamps, Louis feels as though he is seeing in black and white. He knows Harry’s jacket is scarlet, vibrant and perhaps too much so, but here it looks grey.

“I never said I wasn’t a fool.”

This elicits a laugh, full and throaty, and Louis has never spent quite so long in the rain. It is strangely wonderful, to be here alone. It is as though Paris is theirs for the keeping.

Harry seems on the verge of speaking again, so Louis darts in to cut him off. “But at least I am a fool who loves you.” He is near shouting, now; the pour of the rain will cover them soon, he is sure, but Harry’s body relaxes just a second before his face lights up.

Apollo. He is Apollo.

“When I say I want to stay- that is. I would like, if you will allow, to stay for much longer, this time around.”

Louis is brought back to some other time, and Harry’s voice, rusted with fatigue. _May I stay the night?_ The stone under his hands is slippery, and it is easy to pull himself away.

(He is sure, a part of him, that this will ruin him as surely as time will ruin them all. But Harry is beautiful, a statue with blood in his marble veins, so if he needs think back on this moment, he shall think of this. The rain, falling in sheets onto their wet bodies. The ground, cool beneath his shoes and the air to rival it. The river, lit with pale light. Above them all; Harry, who declared himself at home in Louis’s embrace. Harry, who is as different to him as light to dark. Harry, who is sure that Louis is strong).

Louis Tomlinson, renowned warrior, takes his hand.


End file.
